draw back. To avoid a conflict he would at this moment have sacrificed
half his fortune, but not one particle of his dignity.

He knew and respected the old Duc de Marny, a feeble old man now,
almost a dotard whose hitherto spotless _blason_, the young Vicomte,
his son, was doing his best to besmirch.

When the boy fell forward, blind and drunk with rage, Deroulede leant
towards him automatically, quite kindly, and helped him to his feet.
He would have asked the lad's pardon for his own thoughtlessness, had
that been possible: but the stilted code of so-called honour forbade
so logical a proceeding. It would have done no good, and could but
imperil his own reputation without averting the traditional sequel.

The panelled walls of the celebrated gaming saloon had often witnessed
scenes such as this. All those present acted by routine. The etiquette
of duelling prescribed certain formalities, and these were strictly
but rapidly adhered to.

The young Vicomte was quickly surrounded by a close circle of friends.
His great name, his wealth, his father's influence, had opened for him
every door in Versailles and Paris. At this moment he might have had
an army of seconds to support him in the coming conflict.

Deroulede for a while was left alone near the card table, where the
unsnuffed candles began smouldering in their sockets. He had risen to
his feet, somewhat bewildered at the rapid turn of events. His dark,
restless eyes wandered for a moment round the room, as if in quick
search for a friend.